


Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me

by Fuzzy_Carpet



Category: Spider-Man (Movies - Raimi)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 00:26:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2088759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuzzy_Carpet/pseuds/Fuzzy_Carpet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> <i>In the tragic aftermath, two broken lives and two lonely beds have somehow become one.</i>   Movie-verse; AU. Spoilers for SM3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Un-betaed, so all grammatical mistakes and lapses in creativity are mine alone.  This story centers on the dynamics of a somewhat abusive co-dependent relationship, further embellished with copious amounts of angst and h/c -- typical of me you might say -- so be warned as to what's coming.  (This is my first AU in this fandom, not to mention my first foray into writing these boys first-person -- and your feedback, whether good or bad, keeps me motivated.)

   
 _"Show me a hero and I will write you a tragedy." --- F. Scott Fitzgerald_

 

 

 

* * * * * _ **  
**_

 

 

 

I went by the old house this morning, just before dawn.  It's getting harder and harder these days to stay under the radar in the city, what with all the videos that circulated on the Internet after my battle with the Sandman, so I keep odd hours and try to stay close to home so as not to draw attention to myself.  It's not easy living this kind of double-life, especially when every stranger that passes me by might be the next undercover psycho looking to write my epitaph.  But I'm trying.

Today would have been our anniversary, if things had worked out between MJ and me.  But a walk down memory lane wasn't the reason behind my visit.

I just wanted to see if the Watson place was still standing.

It was.  Still the same rusting chain-link fence; still the same roll-up shades in the dirty front windows.  On the outside, the little gray house remained pretty-much unchanged.  It was eerie.  In fact, the time-warp effect was so perfect that I half-expected to see MJ herself come bounding out from behind the front door, red hair flying, throwing her arms around me and dragging me away for a Nathan's hot dog and some off-off-Broadway matinee.

God, how I miss her.

Why is it that time stands still for some, yet moves so fast for others?  That's one of those nonsensical paradoxes my psychiatrist says I should work through.

She also says I should confront my inner demons head-on.  But that would mean marching up those slate steps and ringing the doorbell, and I just can't do it.  Everyone knows MJ's father still blames me for her death -- hell, the old drunk practically throttled me at her funeral -- so I doubt he'd appreciate my showing up on his doorstep unless I was looking for a fight.  Not to mention the fact that if it did come to blows, I'd probably break every bone in his body before he even knew what was happening.  Serve the bastard right for ever laying a hand on her.

 _No._   Today is not a good day to let the darkness out.  Best for everyone involved if I just keep my distance.

I linger a little longer, my eyes skipping from the alleyway to the front yard then back again, watching for signs of life, the dreary November sky taking a slow turn from gray to white.  There was a time when I couldn't do even this; couldn't bear to walk down this very street again without the agony of my compounded grief doubling me over.  But I can now.  I'm glad for that, of course -- but victories like these don't need celebrating.  Not when the only monuments I ever build are those for the dead.

He should have saved her, damn it.  _Her,_ and not me.  My life was forfeit from the day I took up this mantle.  I understood the risks.  I was ready to die.

But he couldn't.  And in the end, there just wasn't enough time.  The inhuman monster that once called itself Eddie Brock made sure of that.

I know that deep down, he still hates me for surviving, even if he never comes right out and says it.  It's one of the last secrets we have left between us, and he won't let go of it so easily.  Not that I want him to.  Touching that still-raw pain lights a fire in him when nothing else will.  And if he needs that to keep on going, then who am I to argue?

I can still feel the pressure of her head where it lay in my lap, her watching both of us with those sad green eyes as her life ran out in rivers on that freshly-poured concrete floor.  "My heroes," she murmured, and with the last of her strength placed his hand squarely in mine.  "Take care of each other... _please..."_ And she was gone.

Love alone wasn't strong enough to keep her safe.  It wasn't supposed to.  That was _our_ job.  And we failed.

I don't ever want to be forgiven for that.

The sonic boom from a low-flying plane thunders above my head, and a lick of old fear chases down my spine, snapping me out of my thoughts.  I look up, expecting the worst, but it's a false alarm.  Just vapor trails and heavy clouds, blocking the daylight from touching my face...

 _Daylight?_ _What time is it?_

A quick check of my watch proves it.  I had stayed too long.  My city was awake, and soon the streets would be choked with people.  Unnerved, I pull my jacket collar higher around my neck and head for the subway, hoping to disappear in the noise and the shadows of another underground commute.

With any luck, I'll make it back before he realizes I was gone.

 

 

 

_(to be continued)_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To recap: this story centers on the dynamics of a somewhat abusive co-dependent relationship, further embellished with copious amounts of angst and h/c -- typical of me you might say -- so be warned as to what's coming in the final chapter.  
>    
>  _My extra-special thanks go to **Tara** (former LJ user "juliajewels" ) without whose beta-work and encouragement I would never have been able to get this far._

 

" _Man is the only animal for whom his own existence is a problem which he also has to solve."  ---  Erich Fromm_

 

 

 

 * * * * *

 

 

 

I come back home to find him right where I left him: sound asleep on the living room rug, head pillowed on one of the chair cushions he had pulled down with him. There are no dark circles under his eyes now, no frown tugging at the corners of his parted lips. The sound of his deep and even breathing fills my ears, and I smile a little when I see the way his hands are curled close to his chest, just like a child's. Safe and sound.

And yet, some part of me needs reassurance that what I see is real -- that _he's_ real -- so I carefully navigate my way through the piles of papers and books littering the floor just so I can lean down and brush the back of my hand against his cheek. His skin feels cold to the touch, even with the gentle friction from a five o'clock shadow, and instead of grounding me in the here and now it drags me back to where I don't want to be, thinking about everything and nothing. He's always so cold now, both inside and out, and it has nothing to do with the weather. And no matter how many times I bring up the subject he always shoots me down. He doesn't want to talk about therapy, and I don't want to talk about "work". Guess we're even.

We go on like this, day after day, both of us staring down the devils of this world while keeping our own at bay...but for how long? There's this pressure inside your head that keeps building, and building, and no matter how strong you think you are you can't hold it all back forever. And when the explosion comes, what happens next? You can't forget what you've seen, and the others can't forgive what you've done. You're stuck in a kind of limbo, scarred and broken in ways few can understand.

Now the lucky ones, they get pulled away from the cliff's edge just in time. As for the rest of us...well, sometimes the fall alone isn't enough to kill you. I should know.  
  
 _I'm not the one who needs help,_ he says, over and over again, sometimes sweeping his arms wide as if he could keep the entire world safe inside them. _They do._  
  
He just doesn't understand.  
  
I lay my jacket across his chest and let him sleep.  
  
  
* * * * *  
  
  
One hot shower later and I still look like hell. Maybe it's this pathetic excuse for a beard I've been trying to grow for almost a month now. It's still so scraggly and sparse that it doesn't fool anyone -- least of all Aunt May, who wasted no time in telling me how facial hair was just a sign of laziness. So much for looking distinguished. I fill the sink and grab the shaving cream.

I take my time stripping my disguise away, willing my mind to empty itself a bit with each careful sweep of the straight edge along my face. There's this pitted crack in the glass of the medicine cabinet that catches my eye. It looks just like a spider's web, and I can't remember how it got there. Have to remind myself to get it fixed.

As I swish the razor around in the water again I get this anxious feeling, like someone's watching, and just before the blade touches my throat an arm snakes around my torso, its icy hand clutching at me, tugging me back against a hard muscular body. The jolt from that sudden contact makes me jump, and I just miss gouging the underside of my jaw as the razor flies from my grip. In an instant, another hand miraculously appears to catch it before it falls. Startled, I look up, and there he is, wide awake and staring over my shoulder at me with an expression as blank as a sheet of paper.

"Did I wake you?" I ask. The question sounded calm enough. But the fact that he walked clear across several rooms in a stone-quiet house without my hearing a thing, or even feeling the vibrations from his footsteps, is not lost on me.

His head tilts to one side, and part of his reflection gets distorted by the fractured glass. A floating eye, a bent ear, like a cubist painting half-complete. "You missed a spot," he says, using that flat monotonous tone that I hate.  
  
I swallow hard. "Guess so."  
  
"Here," and as he's turning me around to face him he holds up the razor, its silvery blade glinting in the fluorescent light. "You'll make a mess of yourself. Let me."  
  
I let him.  
  
His steady hand and even strokes make me wonder if he was awake the whole time. So easy for me to picture him lying there in the dark, surrounded by the remnants of his old life, thinking more and more with each passing hour that this might be the day, the day when I won't come back. It twists my guts into knots.

He makes short work of the remaining foam, taking great pains not to miss a single spot. Once he's finished, he takes firm hold of my chin, turning my head this way and that to inspect his handiwork.

"There," he says, satisfied. "Almost human again." A finger reaches up to stroke my upper lip, catching the beads of fresh sweat forming there before drawing them into his mouth. Only after he's had his fill does the inevitable question come out.  
  
"Where did you go?"  
  
"Out for a walk," I say. The rest doesn't matter. I know perfectly well what he wants, what he's been waiting up for, and it isn't small talk over coffee and a newspaper. I play along anyway. "Couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd get some air. Clear my head."  
  
"Hm. Must have been some walk if you needed to take the subway back."  
  
He knows. But how?  
  
His free hand starts digging into my arm, and he leans closer. "I can smell it, you know." A long inhale, then a sharp exhale, his breath ghosting across my cheek. "Damp air, stale urine...it's all over you."  
  
 _My jacket._ Of course. Sometimes I forget just how keen his senses really are.  
  
"Nobody saw me--"  
  
He cuts me off. "Of _course_ they saw you. Don't lie to me." There's some emotion coloring his words now, a bit of anger flaring up in the face of his worst fears made manifest. All we had left to call our own was our duty, and each other -- and in his view, the two were not mutually exclusive.  
  
"Someone could have followed you. You swore you'd be more careful."

"I did. And I am. But careful doesn't mean me being a prisoner."

The shock of my accusation gets under his skin, making his eyes go narrow and dark. "Is that what you think this is? A _prison?"_

"Maybe." Truth or not, I don't care. Sometimes I feel so frustrated by it all that I want to grab him by the neck and rail at him, make him see the world around us the way I do. These people don't look at anything anymore. They've become so damn jaded that it can be something that's right in front of their face, desperately shouting for attention, for help, and they'll just keep on walking by. _That's_ why children still get abducted, women still get raped...God, people still fight and bleed out right in the middle of the street in broad daylight! And for what? No one cares, not really. It's all falling apart, right under their very noses, and they know it. And the cowards don't even have the guts to _look_ at it.

But him and I, we _have_ to look...don't we?  We're not allowed to turn a blind eye to the truth.  We owe her that much.

"I'm alright. I came home. I always will."  I know how foolish a promise this is, but it's all that I can say.

"And when you _don't?"_ He shot back.  "What then?"

 _What then?_ Not _what if?_

I can't answer that.

He shakes his head, then sighs at my silence.  It's a deep, hollow sound that borders on disappointment, something I hoped I'd never hear from anyone again.

"I know what you're trying to do." He stares at the razor for a long time before folding it back up, carefully placing it on the sink's edge. "I won't let you."

I take his hand in mine, gripping it as hard as I can. "I'm not leaving."  
  
He nods. "That's right." There's a bright flash of danger in the gaze that meets mine, and that's all the leverage he needs to get me out of my towel and into the bedroom. "You're not."

 

  
  
  
_(to be concluded)_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this final chapter comes a reminder that this story centers on the dynamics of a somewhat abusive co-dependent relationship, further embellished with copious amounts of angst and h/c -- typical of me you might say -- so be warned as to what's coming. (This is my first attempt at an AU in this fandom, not to mention my first foray into writing these boys in the first-person -- so thanks for sticking with me this far.)
> 
> _My extra-special thanks go to **Tara** (former LJ user "juliajewels" ) without whose beta-work and encouragement I would never have been able to get this far. Thanks again, friend. *hugs* _

 

 

_"To be able to say how much you love is to love but little."  ---  Petrarch_

 

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

The oak floor feels like a sheet of ice under my bare feet, as shocking to my system as the vice-like grip pulling me along, and I moan a little at the sensation. He reads this as reluctance and hurries to undress, the tangle of unwanted pajama bottoms and boxer shorts kicked to one side of the bed.

"Are you clean?" He asks, a whisper in my ear. I freeze when I feel his wicked fingers curling at my backside, tickling the wrinkled skin there.  Foreplay.

"Everywhere," I answer. There's never been anyone else, he knows that. Who else would want me this way but him?

"Good."

He turns me around to face the headboard, and as those hands map a path from my ass to my hips I focus my gaze on a blank spot on the wall. Soon he's bumping his thighs hard against the backs of my own, making my torso lurch forward. That's the signal for me to crawl up onto the mattress, go down on my hands and knees and wait for him to follow. There's a sense of urgency in the air now, an energy that charges the atmosphere like a thunderstorm and makes the hairs on my arms stand on end.

"I know what I said last time...but I have to." His hand trembles as one finger slides inside, going all the way in to the last knuckle in one push. I'm no virgin yet the sensation still makes me wince, and my back automatically arches with the touch. Whatever I might say in protest would make no difference, since he never has enough patience to get me fully ready for this.

"Have to get inside of you..."

I know he does.

One heavy palm presses on the small of my back, possessive and hot like a brand; a silent warning...but I'm not going anywhere. It's all part and parcel of the game we play, a rule that was set in stone from the very start, and if he were to suddenly act all considerate and loving about the whole thing it wouldn't feel right.

To hell with love anyway. I don't need it anymore. It doesn't change anything, and it won't bring anyone back from the dead. All I've ever needed is right here, right here in this one lonely room -- with him.

 

* * * * *

 

Two fingers are twisting inside me now, his free hand sliding down to hold me open. A fresh jolt of strange pain turns my breath sharp, but I keep still, my arms quivering with the effort as the stubborn muscle there finally gives in. There's a gasp he makes when he feels my surrender, a sound of relief uttered with the realization that I won't stop him.

I can't. I'm too far gone to ever say "no"...but I won't admit that to his face.

That's _my_ dark secret. What's one more between friends anyway?

"Just once more," he begs, the declaration clipped off when he hears me groan, and for a moment it almost sounds sincere. His motions scissor and probe, pulling and stretching me more and more, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from shouting once a third dry digit joins the fray. "I promise..."

My knees are practically buckling under the strain, and since I'm already half-crazy from the aching and the wanting and everything else I tell him to just shut the fuck up and do it.

He does.

Inch by inch he sinks into me, huffing with the effort to go slow. And just when I think I can't take it, he stops, pulling back just as slowly before pushing in all over again. This attempt at gentleness is just for show, however. I know what's in store once the leash breaks, but I steel my resolve to let it happen. His desperation is a fierce thing, and it takes him over so swiftly that I barely sense the change coming on. A switch flips, the world goes red, and suddenly his thrusts are pounding deeper, harder. The brutal rhythm of his body against mine is loud in my ears, piercing the stillness of the bedroom with every wet smack of skin on skin. No mercy.

Sweat drips down from my forehead and stings my eyes, and I have to squint to keep the salt from blinding me. When I manage to get them clear again, I find myself staring at the portraits on the walls, at the carved headboard thumping against the sheet rock, at those velvet drapes covering the tall windows, making the room resemble a funeral parlor.

It's all so perfect, in a way -- for something did die here, a long time ago. And I'm not so arrogant to believe that I didn't have a hand in that.

Of course I did. He told me so...didn't he?

He's moving faster now, giving himself over completely to his own desire while forcing me face-down into the mattress. That's the moment when his thrusts finally hit the perfect angle. It hurts like nothing else, yet I go rock-hard in the instant he hits that one spot. I curse loudly into the bunched-up sheets, muscles squeezing tight to keep him right where he is, keep him bearing down with short, sharp motions, riding Satan's alley all the way to Hell.

Close my eyes again and I've left my body behind, floating high on a wave of delirium that's better than any drug; a seesaw high, soaring up towards the bright blue above. The elevation is so glorious I feel drunk on it; want to go even higher...only he won't let me down easy when it's over. I'm going to crash hard, I know it. Gonna go down right on my face and into the ground.

I'm scared.

I can't breathe, can't see, but the fear has fed my need so well that I've swelled to the bursting point. I won't last much longer, and he knows it, so he pulls my arms behind my back to keep me from finishing myself off. That's how he likes to "discipline" me.

I start to struggle in his grasp, my shoulders popping, my head thrashing from side to side, the pillows barely muffling the stream of vulgar nonsense tumbling out of my mouth.

Thankfully, he tightens his hold and picks up the pace.

Maybe he thinks this is my punishment...but what he doesn't understand is that when he fucks me like this, he sets me free. I don't have to take control, or be anyone's hero. I don't have to do a goddamned thing...and it feels so _good._

I rise up and shout my assent at the top of my lungs when I finally come, adding to the mess already soiling the bed. He's right there with me, pressed up against my body as he lets it all go, unloading everything he's got inside of me, digging his teeth deep into my shoulder. It does nothing to silence the long shuddering cry that I didn't realize he was holding. He collapses against my back when he's finished, then pulls me down with him as he rolls to one side, fading fast, tongue swiping at the stinging wounds he'd just made. It burns like fire when he does that.

No doubt he's left his mark on me, both inside and out.

 

* * * * *

 

Minutes pass, and I'm still shaking, still pumped on adrenaline and running with sweat. The last shocks of pleasure have faded away; the proof of what we've done already drying to a crust on my skin.  Usually I can't wait to jump up and wash it all off.  But the emptiness that's left behind when he finally slips out of me is indescribable, and it paralyzes me.  It's like a physical reminder of the missing part of my soul that once was hers.  The piece I'll never get back.  The piece I'm learning to live without.

I'm still broken.  And there's nothing that can fix that.  _Nothing._   Not even having my best friend in my bed with his cock up my ass.

I feel a tugging at the crook of my arm, someone pulling me back from the precipice of my dark thoughts. More salt on my lips; so much wetness streaming over my hot cheeks now -- did he know I was crying? _Damn it._   I said I wouldn't do that in front of him, ever -- and I hastily scrub the evidence away.

The tender look in his eyes now makes me wonder if he can read minds too, for when he cups my cheek and draws me closer I can almost hear him say, _You think too much, you know that?_

 _And you don't?_ I tell him, and wait.

But it's just my imagination. All that gets past his parted wet lips is breath, and before I know it they move in to seal themselves tightly over mine.

His kiss is overwhelming, his tongue exploring the depths of my mouth and stealing my breath away. It's as if he's sucking the remaining life right out of me.

Good.

Part of me is so tired of everything that I wish he would. Just get it over and done with. Then maybe we both can put this thing between us to rest.

But that's not what he wants; no, not at all. We part, and he lets me live again.

Satisfied, he curls his body close to mine, pulling the discarded comforter off of the floor to cover us. It's old, like everything else in this house is, and though the down has shifted around it creates a nice pocket of body heat that's good enough to share. One of his legs drapes over me possessively, and I think back to a more innocent time, the two of us sharing a sleeping bag once in his tiny backyard under the stars, that one summer I got drunk at a Fourth of July barbecue and had to stay the night. I woke up the next morning with a sore back, a stiff dick, and one of his thighs jammed right between my own.

And to think we blamed what happened next on the beer.

Seems there's still a couple of good memories left in me, even though they're hard to find, like an old photograph lying at the bottom of a cluttered drawer.  I just have to keep on digging, I guess.

"You okay now?" I ask him. Stupid question, I know, but it's the first thing that comes to mind.

He looks up at me, and I can hear the emotion in his voice when he says, "I should be asking _you_ that." He reaches up to stroke my ravaged face, curious fingertips tracing my scars over and over again like he's never seen them before. The examination ends with him grazing what's left of the eyebrow over my clouded eye, the one that will never shed a tear again, and that's when I flinch. His eyes widen in surprise, his sins and mine both reflected in the guilt now plain on his face.

I could lie and tell him it was just a reflex, some instinctual reaction to an unexpected touch -- but he's too smart to fall for that.

Times like this, I wish he had that damn mask on. Then I wouldn't have to see his naked face and know what's going through his mind when he looks at me, kisses me, fucks me, or holds me. Does he feel as hollow as I do when I can't even trust a single caress?

He stops and turns away from me, then a moment later slides an arm across my stomach.

"Yeah." He settles against my body, his head a pleasant weight upon my chest. "It's better. Just...get some sleep.  We'll talk later."

"Alright."

There are a million questions nagging at my conscience, like, _What am I to you? How long can we live like this? Will you ever let me go?_

But I never ask them. Why bother? I mean, what the hell do I ask of the man who both saved my life and ended it, all at once? And do I even _want_ an answer?

I don't know anymore. About the only thing I do know is this: he will never take my life. So I let him take my body. It's the only thing I have left to give. Someday, it might be enough to save us.

"Night, Peter," I say softly, leaning down so my lips brush against his silky hair.

"Mmm..." He mumbles, already halfway there. "Later" will be here before I know it, but I've got a long wait before sleep pulls me under.

 

 

 

_~finis~_


End file.
